


Reading, Baking, Kissing (and More)

by Laur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Baking, Blow Jobs, Comfort, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Hand Jobs, Just Married, M/M, Manicures & Pedicures, Massage, Pampering, Pre-Slash, Wedding Rings, second chapter:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: “The worst thing about this quarantine,” Aziraphale says, then stops and wriggles, embarrassed.[Crowley gives Aziraphale a manicure and tries not to spontaneously combust.]First chapter has a teen rating and can be read alone if smut isn't your thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 107
Kudos: 464





	1. Manicure (Teen Rating)

“The worst thing about this quarantine,” Aziraphale says, then stops and wriggles, embarrassed.

Crowley could be sleeping in his very comfortable king sized bed, but is instead here, in the book shop, watching Aziraphale eat cake. He’s pretty chuffed about it. “What is?”

“Well, it’s not the _worst_ thing, obviously, that would be all the people getting sick and dying – it’s downright trivial compared to that – but it _is_ inconvenient.” He takes a bite of his Black Forest cake, or _schwarzwälder kirschtorte_ as he likes to call it.

For Crowley, the worst thing about the quarantine has been the torturous, transcendental boredom. There are only so many times you can watch all the _Mission: Impossible_ movies before the urge to instigate a daring police chase becomes unbearable. Aziraphale, however, has a near endless supply of books and an excuse to keep his shop closed. He has baking to keep him busy, too, apparently, so Crowley really can’t imagine what Aziraphale is finding so inconvenient about the whole situation.

“What is?” he repeats, and plucks a cherry from his mostly-untouched slice of cake, dangles it from its stem, and tugs off the fruit with his teeth. Pitless – nice.

Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “I can’t get my nails done.”

Crowley’s eyes flick to his plump hand holding the napkin, to the nails that look fine as far as he can tell. Maybe a little longer than Aziraphale usually keeps them. He’d still call them manicured, though perhaps not exquisitely so. “You could miracle them how you like,” he offers, lips twitching, already aware of how this conversation is going to go.

“It’s just not the same,” Aziraphale says predictably, with that hang-dog expression he wears so well. It gets to Crowley every time.

He drops his cherry stem on his plate, leans back in his chair contemplatively. “You could do it yourself?”

The napkin is being folded with military preciseness. “There’s a whole ambience to the thing. It’s an _experience_ , not a chore to do yourself.”

Crowley sticks out his bottom lip, nodding sympathetically. “Well, I mean…”

“Yes?”

He shrugs, crosses his arms, his heart beating in his throat. “I could do it.”

“ _You_ could?”

“Sure, sure. Of course, you’d have to teach me how, first.”

The tips of Aziraphale’s ears are pink, his eyes lowering flirtatiously. He _has_ to know how he looks, fluttering his eyelashes like that. “Of course,” he parrots. “What a splendid idea.” Crowley watches him get up and head for the flat upstairs. “Won’t be a tick.”

When he’s out of sight, Crowley rubs his hands together, peers at his nails. He really has no idea how manicures work. His nails never grow and his cuticles are never ragged – he simply doesn’t allow it.

Aziraphale returns with what looks like a fat briefcase, or an especially fancy toolbox. It looks new, like something you can buy from one of those online stores Crowley told him about. It lands on the table with an impressive thump.

“What on Earth is that?”

Aziraphale shimmies happily as he flicks open the latches and opens the lid. “Just some necessities.”

Slithering out of his seat, Crowley peers over his shoulder to take in the efficiently packed rows of lotions and nail polishes and metal tools still in their packaging, his eyebrows rising. By the looks of it, none of it has ever been used. “When did you get this?”

Aziraphale busies himself clearing the table of books and cakes. “I had it delivered yesterday. My favourite salon is selling them and I figured, if I can’t support them in person, then the least I can do is buy one of their exquisite nail care sets.”

“Yesterday.” Crowley stares at him. “You called me yesterday.”

“Is that so?” As if it’s all a big coincidence. Or as if Aziraphale knew that Crowley would slink over despite the angel’s protests. As if his protests were actually an invitation in disguise.

The bastard.

Crowley smirks and reaches into the case, unsheathes one of the metal implements. “What’s this, then? Some sort of torture device?”

“Those are cuticle nippers, dear.” He sets a large bowl of steaming water and a fluffy white towel on the table. “Now.” He relieves Crowley of the cuticle torture device and eases him back in his chair with a hand to his shoulder. “What scent would you like?” He begins digging through the case, plucking out little bottles and peering at the labels. “There’s lavender, and myrrh, and – mmm!” He’s taken the lid off one of the bottles and inhales with his eyes closed. “Eucalyptus, delightful!”

Slack-jawed, Crowley makes some sort of consonant-filled noise. He clears his throat. “Whatever you prefer.”

“Perhaps a combination. Oh, yes, I know just the thing.” He twists off the caps of the little bottles, mumbling to himself as he adds drops of the scented oils to the water. It does smell pretty good, even with the musk of old books and the sweetness chocolate cake lingering in the air. “Now, why don’t you take your jacket off?”

“Uh, why?”

Aziraphale frowns at him. “I’d hate for the sleeves to get wet.”

“Why would the – hold on.” Crowley straightens out of his slouch. “You want to give _me_ a manicure?”

“Well, how else am I meant to show you how to do it?”

Somehow, that hadn’t occurred to Crowley. “I dunno, I thought you’d just…talk me through it.”

“This is an _art_ , Crowley, it must be learned through _doing_.”

“Right. ‘Course.”

Crowley slips off his jacket, lets Aziraphale take it and hang it on his ancient hat rack. He adds his own cream jacket to keep it company, then drags his chair right beside Crowley, sits down, and takes his right hand.

“ _Gah_.”

Head bowed, Aziraphale ignores his outburst and scrutinizes his hand like one of his prized first editions, running his thumb over each nail and humming in disapproval. Once he’s completed his observations, he repeats them with Crowley’s left hand, making more disappointed noises.

“What? What?”

“Your nails are quite perfect, dear.” Aziraphale’s warm fingertips are gently pressing into his palm and it’s sending tingles like fire ants up Crowley’s arm. “There’s not much I can show you. It will be a quick lesson, I suppose.”

Crowley musters a demonic miracle and suddenly his nails are too long, his cuticles ragged, his fingertips calloused.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinks down at his hands and Crowley feels the back of his neck grow hot. Satan, he’s absolutely transparent. Aziraphale smiles up at him. “Now I have much more to work with.”

He starts by rolling up his own sleeves and then Crowley’s, ignoring Crowley’s protests that he can do it himself.

“It’s meant to be _relaxing_ , Crowley.” He makes Crowley take off his own watch though, stymied by the many buckles. “You can tell time on that thing?”

“It works underwater,” Crowley mumbles, shoving the expensive timepiece in his pocket.

“That sounds very useful.”

Crowley glowers at him, but Aziraphale only smiles sweetly and dunks his hands in the water. “Ohh,” he sighs, spine curling and shoulders sagging. “It’s _warm_.”

“This will soften your poor cuticles. Nice, isn’t it?”

Crowley hums and lets his hands soak in the oil-scented water while Aziraphale bustles about that giant case of his, plucking out tools and potions and setting them out on the table. Once everything is lined up to his satisfaction, he retrieves Crowley’s right hand and places it on the fuzzy towel folded on the table. The first thing he grabs is something metal and sharp-looking.

“You know how to use that, right?”

Aziraphale clucks at him and takes his fingers in hand. “It’s just a nail clipper, darling. I’ll start by trimming and shaping your nails.”

_Darling_. He’s never called Crowley _darling_ before. Reeling, Crowley lets Aziraphale manipulate his hand without protest, the only sounds the old gramophone in the background, Aziraphale’s quiet humming, and the clicking of his nails being trimmed. Aziraphale’s hands are warm, his fingertips exerting a gentle, guiding pressure on his palm and knuckles.

They don’t, as a rule, touch all that often. There hasn’t been much reason to, over the years, not to mention the constant fear that anything they did could get back to their bosses. Even in the months since the failed Armageddon, they’ve generally kept their distance. Old habits, he muses. The oldest, in fact.

After the nail clipping is the nail filing, which makes Crowley’s teeth buzz dully, then the cuticle pusher and then the dreaded cuticle nippers, which aren’t so bad, actually. “This seems like an awful lot of work.”

“It’s quite worth it,” Aziraphale says, straightening up. “There, see?”

Crowley peers at his nails, which appear slightly less perfect than before they started this whole thing. “Looks good.”

“Now this,” Aziraphale announces, brandishing a tube of some sort, “is my favourite part.”

“What’s that?”

“Lotion, my dear.” He squirts a liberal amount into his palm, rubs his hands together, and then sweeps his warm hands up and down Crowley’s forearm, the heel of his palm digging into his muscles.

“Ng—” Crowley nearly melts out of his chair as Aziraphale’s thumbs massage circles into his palm, the meat of his thumb, the thin skin of his wrists.

“My usual technician,” Aziraphale is saying, “has this wonderful technique, it feels quite divine—”

Crowley lets Aziraphale chatter while he turns every bone in Crowley’s arm to liquid, the warmth and carefully applied pressure releasing tension he wasn’t even aware of having. He hasn’t had a massage in millennia.

“How’s that feel, dear?”

_Amazing. Like love and belonging and every nice thing a demon shouldn’t want._ “Ngg – good.”

Aziraphale beams. “Wonderful. Time to swap hands.”

They do a bit of shuffling, and then Aziraphale repeats the process on his left side, leaving Crowley with noodles for arms. It feels fantastic, this pampering. He can see why Aziraphale likes it.

When his hands are limp and warm on the towel, Aziraphale reaches for the case. “Now, you don’t have to get the polish, though it strengthens your nails quite nicely. I normally get clear, because I’m a bit boring, but we have a whole collection of colours here.”

“You’re not boring,” Crowley says absently, considering his options.

Aziraphale smiles and reaches for a black polish. “I imagine you’d like this one, hm?”

His immediate instinct is to agree. Black is sort of his _thing_ after all, sleek and cool and mysterious. Even during the psychedelic 60s he managed to maintain his monochromatic look. But there’s another polish that catches his eye. “The red.”

Aziraphale turns and hunts out the red nail polish, a sort of fiery auburn colour that’s a perfect match for the scales on his underbelly. “Oh, this will be stunning.”

The back of Crowley’s neck is hot, his nervous system kicking up a fuss with all this touching and affection. There’s a low-level buzzing all through his body, his heart working double-time.

Aziraphale dabs at his nails to remove any lingering lotion and then shakes the bottle of red polish. “I’m probably not very good at this,” he warns.

“’s alright, angel.”

Aziraphale tucks on his little reading glasses and hunches over Crowley’s hand, expression studious. Crowley looks at his white-blond curls and tries to keep it together while his chest cracks open with love.

He does two layers of the red and then a clear top coat, wiping away the polish that gets on his skin with another one of those metal tools. Crowley admires one hand while Aziraphale finishes the other, blowing on the drying polish every so often at Aziraphale’s urging. It looks…fierce, he decides. Pretty. A flash of colour to draw the eye. It’s not perfect – his nails are a little uneven in places, a fleck of polish on his cuticles – but Crowley finds he likes the look of it anyway. The imperfections show the care that went into it – not by a professional, but by someone who loves him.

“Voila,” Aziraphale says with a flourish, sitting up with an expression that’s satisfied and a little shy. “How’s that?”

Crowley smiles around the unexpected lump in his throat. “Terrific,” he says honestly and watches Aziraphale flush up happily. He sits back in his chair to pose in his usual sprawl, his hands dangling casually, showing off his nails. “How do I look?”

Aziraphale’s eyes rake over him blatantly, barely sparing a glance for his nails. The low buzzing that’s been vibrating Crowley’s entire body suddenly becomes much more intense and localized, a flare of heat that makes him aware of how tight his jeans are.

“Positively sinful,” Aziraphale says lowly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Crowley shifts in his seat, his cool rapidly melting away. “Your turn, then?” He reaches for the bowl.

“Wait!” Aziraphale’s fingers encircle his wrist, stop his movement. “You have to let the polish dry.”

“It is dry. I was blowing on it.”

“It takes much longer than that—”

“Angel. I promise it’s dry. It’s my turn to treat you.”

Aziraphale softens. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” His nail polish won’t dare smudge or chip. It’ll stay on for the next century if he wants it to. He snaps his fingers and everything is clean again, the towel warm and dry, the water fresh, the tools good as new. He hums as he looks through the scented oils, picks out the ones that suit Aziraphale best. “Definitely lavender,” he murmurs, adding a couple drops. “Chamomile…”

Aziraphale leans over, lets the steam waft in his face. “Scrummy.”

This time, Crowley makes sure Aziraphale’s sleeves are secure, folding the cuffs above his elbows, trying to make every brush of skin last. “In you go.”

He places his hands in the bowl and sighs in contentment, eyes fluttering closed. “This is delightful. We ought to do spa days more often.”

“What, like massages and things?”

“Mhmm.” His eyes slit open to look at him. “Though I fear if your muscles got any looser, you’d dislocate something.”

Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale only closes his eyes again, a smug smile pinching his lips. “It’s called swagger, angel. It’s cool.”

Once his cuticles are deemed suitably soft, Aziraphale places his hand in Crowley’s. It’s a good thing Aziraphale is capable of maintaining one-sided conversations, because Crowley finds himself with very little attention to spare. As he trims Aziraphale’s nails, it takes several minor miracles to keep his hands steady. He can’t bear the thought of his hand slipping and cutting Aziraphale by accident.

Aziraphale’s nails are perfectly round, the ends tipped with white crescent moons that Crowley carefully thins and smoothens. His hands are incredibly soft, his fingers straight and steady, like they were made for repairing delicate old books, or carding through your hair. He has the kind of hands that are perfect for holding, for clasping, for tangling your fingers with. Looking at his hands, you’d never know that they once wielded a flaming sword.

His right hand looks oddly bare, though, and then Crowley realizes what’s missing. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

“—and then I – oh. No, I took it off for baking and I suppose I just…never put it back on. I wonder where it went to.” His head swivels around the shop, frowning absentmindedly.

“You’ve always worn your ring. Since the very beginning.”

Aziraphale shrugs, looking down at their joined hands. “It’s just a ring.”

It isn’t just a ring. It’s so much more than that, at least it used to be. It’s a badge, a uniform, a symbol tying him to Heaven.

“It isn’t so important, anymore,” Aziraphale continues quietly and Crowley ducks his head, gets back to Aziraphale’s cuticles.

His eyes are wide behind his sunglasses, implications spinning dizzyingly through his head. They’ve both been happily excommunicated from their respective sides, but there has been an adjustment period. For Aziraphale, there has been much looking over his shoulder, dreading that their ruse will be found out. Whereas Crowley doesn’t know what to do with his all this newfound freedom. He was prone to boredom when he was working, and now that he’s out of a job he really doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

By no means does he regret cutting ties with Hell, but he has admitted, to himself at least, that at least Hell kept things interesting. And if he’s thinking that, he can’t help but wonder if Aziraphale, in some small way, wishes he could have fixed things with Heaven. He wonders if maybe the angel harbours a secret regret for what had to be done to save the Earth.

But now he’s taken off his ring and Crowley is probably reading too much into it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale exclaims into the odd silence. “I simply must tell you about those hooligans who broke into the shop—”

Of the two of them, Crowley is by far the better listener. Aziraphale is too clever, too easily distracted, interrupting with comments and concerns, his brain going on tangents. But as Aziraphale speaks, Crowley barely hears every other word as he carefully removes the dead skin from each nail.

Historically, their conversation style has always been oblique when discussing their relationship. With all his books, Aziraphale is a master at spinning words to a near incomprehensible degree when he needs to, whereas Crowley prefers to act rather than say much at all. Countless rescues, famous plays, saving old books…manicures.

Crowley is very adept at reading between the lines, but he needs at least two lines to read between.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry, just—” He puts down the cuticle nipper, smooths his thumb over each nail to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. “Your ring. Are you ever going to put it back on?”

Crowley has moved on to his other hand before Aziraphale responds. “I’m not sure. I rather think I’ve outgrown it. Metaphorically speaking.”

They fall into another silence while Crowley considers this, carefully filing each nail to remove any jagged edges. “Are you happier without it?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think so.”

“That’s all that matters, then,” Crowley says to his nails. He puts down the file and grabs the tube of lotion. “Your favourite part.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says. He wriggles his shoulders and presents his arm with a smile. “Do show me what you’ve learned, my dear.”

Crowley squirts out a healthy amount of lotion, rubs his hands together, and, forcing himself not to hesitate, lays his palms on Aziraphale’s forearm.

His red nails contrast sharply with Aziraphale’s skin, and he watches them as he sweeps his hands down to Aziraphale’s wrist and back up to his elbow. He feels the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin, the give of his muscle, the sturdiness of his bones. The hairs covering his arm sway with each pass of Crowley’s hands.

“Delightful,” Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve taught you well.”

Crowley snorts a laugh that’s mostly nerves. He spreads the lotion over Aziraphale’s hand next, the hand Crowley knows as well as his own, pressing his thumbs into the small muscles in his palm. Aziraphale’s fingers curl, his fingertips brushing Crowley’s wrist and making him shiver.

Aziraphale feels so terrifyingly human with them touching like this, warm and solid and finite. It’s an illusion. Under his skin burns a being more powerful than most people can comprehend, all the more powerful for that he so rarely shows it. Their corporations are mere vessels for their true selves, and no amount of nail polish or fancy clothes or sunglasses will change that. Aziraphale can take off his ring, but Crowley’s eyes will always be those of a serpent. The curling mark by his ear will always be a part of him, less like a tattoo and more like a birthmark. He can’t get rid of it like a snake shedding its skin.

They have renounced their sides, but Crowley will always be a demon and Aziraphale, if Crowley has any say in it, will always be an angel.

How long has he been trying to convince Aziraphale that the only real differences between angels and demons are personal hygiene and political views? And here he is getting tangled up in the nature versus nurture debate. 

“Ooh,” Aziraphale moans, sagging a little when Crowley’s fingers dig into a tender spot. “All that batter mixing is more work than it looks.”

Smirking, Crowley’s thumbs circle on his skin, smoothing out the knot of muscle. “Is that the spot?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes slip closed with a look of bliss and the smirk slips from Crowley’s face. He watches Aziraphale’s face like an addict, his chest tight. Aziraphale is made for pleasure, for softness, for nice things, and Crowley wants to give him all of it.

He massages every muscle in his arms, gives attention to each finger, especially his naked pinky, which has a pale band around its base. The bones feel so delicate, like they could snap with the slightest force, but Aziraphale is calm. He trusts Crowley with his phalanges. It’s an oddly uplifting thought.

Once Crowley has worked out every knot of muscle, he can’t help but linger, loathe to break their warm connection, the smooth glide of skin against skin. Aziraphale watches him, his expression slowly morphing from dreamy to fond and Crowley at last pulls away, feeling caught out.

He wipes his hands on the towel and twists in his seat to rummage through the nail polishes, his face turned away. “Clear, right?”

“Actually, I’m feeling a little daring today.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Daring, huh? What colour would you like?”

Aziraphale hums and leans closer. “I believe I spotted a lovely gold in there earlier.”

Eyes scanning the options, Crowley plucks out the gold polish. “Very angelic. Good match for your aesthetic.”

“Hm? Oh, I suppose so, though that’s not why I picked it.”

Shaking the little bottle, Crowley peers at him. “Oh?”

Aziraphale looks down at his hands and then back up, smiling a little bashfully. “It’s the colour of your eyes.”

Crowley freezes, the nail polish suspended in the air. “My eyes are yellow,” he says stupidly.

Aziraphale scrunches his nose and Crowley finds it stupidly adorable. “A yellow topaz, perhaps.” He takes the polish from Crowley’s unresisting fingers, then hesitates. “May I?”

Mutely, Crowley nods, then stays stock still as Aziraphale slowly, carefully, pinches the arm of his sunglasses and pulls them from Crowley’s face.

No one ever touches Crowley’s sunglasses. The last person – demon – who did was Hastur, and this is not like that. This is nothing like that.

Aziraphale gently lays the sunglasses on the table and then holds up the bottle of polish by Crowley’s temple. He barely glances at the polish, instead focusing on Crowley’s naked eyes, his own round pupils blooming in a way that would have stolen Crowley’s breath if he hadn’t stopped breathing moments ago.

“A perfect match,” he says softly, and his fingers accidentally brush Crowley’s temple.

Crowley shivers and his eyes slip closed, unable to stand the intensity any longer. The heat of Aziraphale’s skin disappears from his temple and then he can feel the nail polish bottle being pressed into his hand, Aziraphale’s hands enclosing his.

“I’d quite like you to put this on me. Unless you’d prefer if I selected a different colour? Perhaps I ought to stick to clear as usual.”

His words pick up speed as Aziraphale begins to ramble and Crowley’s eyes snap open. “No. No, I mean. It’s fine. It’s…it’ll be a good colour on you.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax and they smile at each other hesitantly, trying not to cringe away from the delicate honesty growing between them. “Well then.” He presents his hand, fingers spread.

Nodding, Crowley untwists the lid and forces his hand steady. He dabs the little brush on the rim of the bottle to remove the excess polish, and begins the task of painting Aziraphale’s nails. “What are you going to do,” he asks, hunched over, “when all this quarantine stuff is over?”

“Oh, I suppose I ought to re-open the book shop. I could limit the number of people allowed in at once. It has been ever so nice not having to fend off customers though, I’m really not looking forward to it.”

“You could pretend to retire,” Crowley offers, carefully dragging the brush down his index nail. “Wait a couple decades and then act like your own descendent. That’s what I did with Shadwell.”

“That’s a splendid idea. Though I can’t stay in the shop or else people will be knocking on the door all the time.”

Crowley pauses with the brush just above his nail. “You could hunker down at my place.”

“That’s a very kind offer, but your place is a bit…well, depressing, my dear.”

Having been stuck in his flat for the past several weeks, Crowley has come to have the same opinion. Still, he won’t have Aziraphale disrespecting his demon’s lair like that. “It’s stylish!”

“That may be so, but it certainly is not very livable.”

Crowley’s flat isn’t designed to be livable, which has never been a problem since Crowley never used to really live there. It used to be a place to sleep and keep some of the stuff he’s collected over the millennia. However, last week, staring at the grey walls while the third _Mission: Impossible_ played on his flat screen tv, he realized that his flat is more like a dungeon than a home. He can’t imagine Aziraphale living there.

The thing is, by inviting Aziraphale to stay at his place, he didn’t actually mean his flat. Crowley has been looking at real estate listings. Specifically, cottages. Some of his plants are getting an attitude and it would be a perfect punishment, he thinks, to relocate them to the wilds of rural England. See how they like it there, without Crowley pampering them.

A cottage in the South Downs, that’s where Crowley can picture Aziraphale, puttering about with his books, a terrible tartan throw over the couch. Crowley hasn’t yet built up the nerve to pitch the idea to him. It’s not that Aziraphale will hate it – he’s certain Aziraphale will love the idea of a little cottage, as long as it’s within driving distance to some restaurants. But it’s meant to be a big deal, isn’t it, inviting someone to move in with you?

“Perhaps we could travel for a few years,” Aziraphale continues, unaware of Crowley’s inner turmoil. “I’ve realized I haven’t left England in ages. As much as I love it here, I fear I’ve grown rather disconnected from the rest of the world.”

Crowley blows lightly on his nails and then begins the second coat. “We?”

“Obviously. There wouldn’t be much point without you, my dear. Who else would I share my experiences with?”

Crowley’s heart stutters, which is probably unhealthy. “That’s – I mean – yeah, no, right.”

“Oh, but your poor plants. They’d never survive without you that long.”

There isn’t going to be a better opening than that. “Actually, I’m, uh, thinking of buying a cottage. Someplace where I can plant the buggers outside. They could do with the challenge.”

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch and Crowley hisses at him, narrowly avoiding getting polish on his cuticles. “A cottage?”

“Mhmm.”

The pitch of Aziraphale’s voice increases. “Would you…Does that mean you won’t be in the city anymore?”

“I’d keep my Mayfair flat. But I was thinking…you could move out there. With me. You know, during your fake retirement. Or longer. Forever, really. If you wanted.”

“You…you would want me there?”

Crowley lifts his head. “There wouldn’t be much point without you.”

A smile wobbles across Aziraphale’s face. “You old softie.”

“Shut up,” Crowley growls, ducking his head again. He’s nearly finished, just needs to add the clear top coat.

Aziraphale hums along to the gramophone, interrupting himself periodically with ideas of where they ought to travel – _we simply must visit those Hindu temples we worked at in the 11 th century_ – and what their prospective cottage ought to look like – _a garden for you, and a library of course_. As he chatters happily, Crowley feels his stomach swim with excitement, imagining what the future may look like with Aziraphale at his side. He may have gotten soft, but that’s just the thing for Aziraphale.

When he’s done, he miracles Aziraphale’s nails dry. “How’s that?”

Aziraphale holds up his hands, turning them back and forth like the royal wave to admire his nails in the sunlight. “Oh, Crowley, what a splendid job you’ve done. This looks positively professional. You really are quite talented with your hands.”

The effusive compliments set Crowley squirming, embarrassed but pleased. He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe because impressing Aziraphale is addictive. Maybe to deflect the attention from his nails. Maybe because they’ve effectively agreed to live together for the foreseeable future and Crowley can’t help but notice that in Aziraphale’s list of cottage requirements, he has repeatedly mentioned ‘the bedroom’, singular. Whatever the reason, Crowley says, “You should see what I can do with my tongue,” then reaches with his red-nailed fingers to pinch his discarded cherry stem from his plate, and sticks it in his mouth.

Flabbergasted, Aziraphale watches him with wide eyes. “Crowley, I know you don’t partake in food that often, but you aren’t supposed to eat the stem!”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I know that,” he says around the stem. “Watch.” With his agile tongue, he quickly manipulates the stem into a loop and then pushes one end through. It takes him less than ten seconds. Sticking out his tongue, he presents the knotted stem.

Open-mouthed, Aziraphale slowly reaches out and plucks the stem from his tongue. Crowley can taste his skin and the chemical tang of nail polish.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale breathes, scrutinising the knotted stem. He looks up at Crowley with an expression that Crowley can only describe as smouldering.

He swallows thickly, swallows the taste of Aziraphale. “Know what that means, then?” He’s good at reading between the lines, but he’s always preferred actions over words. You can say anything. What you do is telling.

“I’ve heard rumours, of course.” He puts down the stem, his eyes dark and unwavering on Crowley’s face as he leans over the table. “I’ve never had the opportunity to test the hypothesis myself though.”

Drawn like a snake to a patch of sun-warm earth, Crowley leans closer. “The rumours are true.”

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Please.”

Aziraphale’s hands cup his face, his thumbs brushing the delicate skin under his eyes. “A perfect match,” he whispers, and closes the distance between them.

Eyes slipping closed, Crowley inhales sharply and presses into the kiss, his hands flying up to grip Aziraphale’s shoulders. The kiss starts chaste but quickly deepens, and Crowley groans in approval. His hands skim over Aziraphale’s shoulders and into his hair, which is even softer than Crowley has imagined, cradling his skull in his palms. His tongue flickers against Aziraphale’s lips, which open eagerly.

Taking the hint, Crowley pushes aside his disbelief that this is actually happening and works to impress.

He starts slowly, teasingly, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction to the gentle graze of teeth against his bottom lip, to the tip of his tongue nudging against his. He adds variety by kissing along Aziraphale’s jaw, by stroking the sides of his neck with his thumbs, by giving a darting lick to his earlobe. Aziraphale sighs and clutches at him and presses closer. He’s no slouch in the kissing department himself and things quickly become intense. He tugs on Crowley’s bottom lip with his teeth and Crowley groans at the shot of arousal that zips down his spine.

Crowley is getting to the point where he is tempted to crawl into Aziraphale’s lap and decides that is probably a sign that he ought to slow down. Sucking in a breath through his nose, he draws back and opens his eyes, then nearly dives back in immediately. Aziraphale is flushed and red-lipped, his eyes half-lidded and pupils blown wide. His fingers are still deliciously tangled in Crowley’s hair.

“Oh, my,” he breathes again, reminiscent of the first time he tried chocolate. “I haven’t been kissed like that in centuries.”

Crowley can’t stop touching him, his hands trailing up and down his arms. “Done much kissing, then?”

“A handful of times, just to try it. I don’t have nearly as much practice as you, I’m afraid.”

“We can add it to your quarantine list. Reading, baking, kissing.”

Aziraphale bites his lip in a way that looks deliberately coquettish and is definitely working for Crowley. “And perhaps more?” His eyes dart down and back up, and his fingertips trail along Crowley’s jaw to his neck. “My nails look so fetching against your skin. I admit I’d quite like to see them complement – hm – _other_ places of your body.”

Crowley has heard of, though never really believed in, cases of people spontaneously combusting. His disbelief wavers sharply as he wonders if he may be the next case. An image pops into his head of Aziraphale’s gold-tipped fingers wrapped around his cock, or circling his clit, and a terribly embarrassing noise slips between his teeth.

“Wonderful, so glad you’re amenable.” With a sweet smile, Aziraphale brushes his thumb against the corner of Crowley’s mouth and then stands, discretely adjusting his trousers.

Crowley nearly falls off his chair. “Wha—?"

With angelic brusqueness, Aziraphale begins cleaning up the manicure supplies while Crowley’s brain reboots. “Perhaps tomorrow we can do pedicures. How does that sound, darling?”

_Darling!_ “Fantastic. Terrific.”

“Wonderful. Goodness, I’m so glad you decided to slither over here after all.”

Somewhat recovered, Crowley snaps his fingers and the nail care box is promptly reorganized. “Good thing I didn’t listen to you, huh?”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale leans across the table to press a kiss to the bridge of Crowley’s nose, love pouring into him through the brief contact. “You listened to me perfectly.”

By the time Crowley has blinked his eyes clear, Aziraphale is wondering off between his book stacks.

“Speaking of India,” he’s saying, “I’m certain I have an old copy of the _Kama Sutra_ in here somewhere…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep reading for a smutty pedicure follow-up. I'm also on [Tumblr](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat there!


	2. Pedicure (Explicit Rating)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure indulgence.

_Reading, baking, kissing_ , Aziraphale thinks with a smile, watching Crowley inexpertly mix egg whites and cream and sugar.

“You have to beat it slower, dear,” Aziraphale says, and only realizes after the words have left his mouth that they have a double meaning.

Crowley’s arm stops its uncoordinated jerking. “Excuse me?”

 _Reading, baking, kissing, and perhaps more_ , Aziraphale amends. It’s a splendid quarantine list.

As it turns out, his favourite nail salon doesn’t sell foot baths, which put them in a bit of a pickle.

“I suppose we could just use a bucket,” Aziraphale said, with much reluctance, after a disappointing phone call earlier this morning, “but I’d so like for you to get the full experience.”

“There’s always Amazon,” Crowley suggested.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Isn’t that inter-web company a bit, well, evil?”

“Internet,” Crowley corrected with a grimace.

 _Internet_ , he mouthed to himself, committing it to memory even though he didn’t really see the difference.

“And it is, a bit.” Crowley shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging into a devilishly handsome curve. “But we can either call all over the city on the off chance someone is selling what you’re looking for, or I can order it now,” he held up his mobile phone and wriggled it in the air, “and it’ll be here by the end of the day.”

What a masterful tempter. Aziraphale worked his jaw, taking about two seconds to contemplate resisting, as an angel should. The thought of all those phone calls was awfully unpleasant, though. Plus, looking at Crowley sprawled on his couch, his red-tipped fingers brushing his thigh, he did awfully want that foot bath as soon as possible.

He was retired, drat it.

“Oh, fine,” he huffed, and relocated to sit beside Crowley, the better to see his phone screen. “What are the options, then?”

He pretended to be oblivious to Crowley’s reaction to their sudden proximity, the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed where their thighs brushed, the way his breath whistled with his sharp inhale, the way he fumbled his phone as he turned it on. It brought him great pleasure, warmth expanding in his chest, to know that the effect they have on each other is mutual.

After an hour of scrolling and reading reviews, of Aziraphale agonizing over the various features and colours and prices, Crowley made the executive decision to order one _Foot Spa/Bath Massager with Heat Bubbles Vibration 3 in 1 Function, 4 Massaging Rollers Pedicure for Tired Feet Stress Relief Help Sleep Home Use_. With the _Foot Spa/Bath Massager with Heat Bubbles Vibration 3 in 1 Function, 4 Massaging Rollers Pedicure for Tired Feet etc_. on its way, they found themselves in a state of painful anticipation, which Aziraphale offered to relieve with baking. Crowley insisted on angel food cake.

Which led to Crowley standing in Aziraphale’s cluttered kitchen, fumbling with a beater.

“Like this,” Aziraphale says and, feeling bold, shuffles up behind Crowley, pressing against his back and reaching around him to guide his hands. Just like on the couch that morning, Crowley stiffens and then melts, allowing Aziraphale to touch him, embrace him, slouching a bit so Aziraphale can rest his chin on Crowley’s sharp shoulder. Under Aziraphale’s direction, he decreases the beater’s speed and tilts the bowl to mix in the batter along the edges.

He’s warm and almost fragile-feeling in Aziraphale’s arms, his spine the perfect curve for Aziraphale’s tummy. He isn’t actually fragile, not physically, at least. Demons are notoriously resilient, belligerent even, and certainly not designed to be embraced by angels, no matter what it feels like. At least, that’s what Heaven led Aziraphale to believe.

The guilt he’s waiting for doesn’t make an appearance. It feels so very right, holding Crowley like this, especially without his Heaven-given ring digging coldly into Crowley’s skin.

“You’re going to get batter on my clothes,” Crowley grumbles, making no effort to slither away. His voice vibrates through his back into Aziraphale’s chest. 

“I offered you an apron,” he retorts, auburn hair tickling his cheek. Last night, after their manicures, they shared a bottle of wine and Crowley dozed on the couch while Aziraphale read, the streets outside the shop eerily quiet. They shared tea and scones for breakfast and Crowley didn’t bother to miracle his hair to rights, leaving it more tousled and less artful than usual. It’s endlessly endearing.

“Your aprons are ludicrous.”

His aprons, with tartan print and lace edging, are not _ludicrous_ , they are quaint. They are also eminently practical, which is why Aziraphale always wears one while baking. “Are you saying I look ludicrous?”

Crowley makes a complicated sound. “ _No_. I’m saying I would look ludicrous wearing one.”

“You wouldn’t.” Aziraphale turns off the beater. “You could wear a paper bag and make it look good.”

Another mangled noise wriggles out of Crowley’s throat. He puts down the bowl and beater and turns. “What’s gotten into you?” Before Aziraphale can respond Crowley is kissing him, using his soft lips and clever tongue to turn his knees to jelly.

They stay like that for several minutes, kissing in the middle of the kitchen while the neglected batter slowly deflates. The oven, reaching its pre-heated temperature, interrupts them with a rude beep.

Feeling breathless, Aziraphale beams and Crowley smiles back, his pupils very nearly round. Aziraphale can’t recall where his sunglasses have gotten to. “I believe retirement has ‘gotten into me’. I’m tired of denying myself what I want.”

Crowley’s smile widens, showing teeth. “Angel, you hardly ever deny yourself anything. You almost got yourself killed over crepes.”

He sniffs. “That was an honest mistake. Besides, all I was risking was discorporation and an unpleasant lecture from Gabriel. Kissing you would have been quite another matter.”

Crowley’s smile dims, his hands sweeping down Aziraphale’s arms to clasp his hands. “I never would have let them hurt you.”

Heart expanding in his chest, Aziraphale squeezes his hands. “I was more concerned about what Hell would do to you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being punished or, God forbid – sorry – destroyed because of me.”

Crowley blinks. “I was already risking my skin for the Arrangement. You think I wouldn’t have been willing to risk it for a kiss?”

“It could never have been just a kiss, Crowley. I’ve had quite a lot of time lately to think about why I denied to myself that I wanted you. With our Arrangement, I could justify that it didn’t really change anything, in the grand scheme of things. We were just an angel and a demon, nudging the humans back and forth, never too far from centre. It was convenient, but it was still in the realm of professional. Friendly, definitely, but professional.”

“For the record, I’ve never thought of you as a business associate.”

“What about business rivals?”

Crowley shrugs, pulls away to lean against the workbench. “Mostly I just thought of you as my friend.”

Their fight at the bandstand comes to mind: _How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!_ He swallows around a lump in his throat. “The way I wanted you – want you – is far from professional, the antithesis of proper angelic behaviour. The way I wanted you was purely selfish and utterly inexcusable, and if I gave into it, I would have had to turn my back on everything I knew, everything I believed in.”

“I know, angel.” His eyes are gentle with understanding. “I’ve always known.”

“Well, I’m tired of it.” He straightens his shoulders. “I’m not lying to myself any longer.”

Crowley reaches out and pulls Aziraphale in by his – quaint, not ludicrous – apron. “You don’t ever have to deny yourself with me. You want me, I’m yours.”

“Oh, my…”

They’re kissing again, something growing hot and fast between them, and it isn’t until the oven begins an incessant beeping that they pull apart for breath. They finally manage to finish the cake, to the oven’s great relief, and then spend the afternoon stretching their wings.

It’s a tight fit, amongst teetering stacks of books, but they manage it, both of them sitting cross legged, Crowley’s fingers combing through Aziraphale’s feathers. This type of preening is such an indulgence, the intimacy filling Aziraphale with bliss, shivers wracking his frame whenever Crowley scratches at a sensitive spot. When he returns the favour, he marvels at how soft Crowley’s wings are. If he closes his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from an angel’s.

Once every oil-black feather is sleek and shiny and straight, he presses a kiss to the knobby bit on the back on Crowley’s neck. Crowley shudders, his wings rippling under Aziraphale’s hands.

“Thanksss,” he rasps, head bowed and voice thick.

Aziraphale says nothing, just hugs him from behind, black and white feathers mingling.

They have cake for dinner. Or rather, Aziraphale has cake and Crowley watches him. If he were human, Aziraphale might find that unblinking stare unnerving, but he is not human, so he finds it quite flattering instead. Flattering and a bit arousing. He wonders if Crowley has always watched him like that, hidden behind his sunglasses, and is grateful he was never aware of it before. He thinks of all the meals they’ve shared and doubts his nerves could have handled it.

He’s finishing the last bite when there’s a knock on the door. At last, Crowley’s eyes flick away. “I got it.”

Aziraphale dabs his mouth with a napkin while Crowley saunters to the door, the bell tinkling when he pulls it open. When he returns, he’s holding a carboard box.

“Is that the _Foot Spa/Bath Massager with_ —?”

“Yup.”

Crowley opens the package while Aziraphale cleans up the baking supplies, speeding things along with a miracle or two. It’s when he’s putting away the flour that he finds his ring.

It’s an innocuous band of gold, wedged between a cook book and a baking sheet. Aziraphale has the urge to plop the bag of flour back on top of it.

“Why does this thing have so many buttons?” Crowley mutters somewhere behind him.

A thought blooms in Aziraphale’s head, a thought that causes the tight knot in his chest to unravel slightly. He puts away the flour and then picks up the ring, coming to stand beside Crowley, who is hunched over the _Foot Spa/Bath Massager with Heat Bubbles Vibration 3 in 1 Function, etc._ on the table. He’s squinting at the symbols like they’re hieroglyphs. Or like an alien script, since Aziraphale is quite certain Crowley can read hieroglyphs.

“There’s an instruction manual, dear.”

“Instructions are for wusses,” Crowley grumbles and pokes one of the buttons. The machine begins to whir, purple lights bursting to life.

“What’s this for?” Aziraphale picks up a black cord that is dangling on the ground like a limp tail. It’s got prongs on the end.

“No idea.” Crowley pokes another button and the lights turn red. He glances at Aziraphale. “I think it wants water. What?”

“I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Crowley straightens. “What?”

Gathering his nerve, Aziraphale holds out his hand, the ring sitting in his open palm. “Could you modify it?”

Slitted pupils focus on the ring. “Whaddya mean?”

“Well, I could destroy it, or stash it away somewhere and never see it again. But. It would be nice, I thought, if I could have a different ring. One that represents, well, us. Our side.”

The _Foot Spa/Bath Massager with Heat Bubbles, etc_. continues whirring in the resulting silence. Crowley’s head is tilted to stare at the ring, his expression hidden. “Our side.”

Aziraphale’s heart is pounding. It’s a bit like how he felt whenever he had to give Gabriel a status update, only worse, because he cares much more what Crowley thinks. “I no longer wish to be associated with Heaven. You’re my priority now. And earth, but that’s a given. So. Would you?”

“Angel, is this…” He looks up, no white in his eyes. The whirring is somewhat ruining the moment, so Aziraphale glares at the _Foot Spa/Bath Massager etc_. until it goes quiet, though its lights flash indignantly. “Are we getting married or something?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widen. He considers what he just said.

“Never mind, stupid question, obviously that’s not—”

“I suppose we are.”

“—what you – what?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion to make. Marriage is for humans of course, but the concept can certainly be applied to them. A union. Devotion to another. Yes, Aziraphale wants that. He nods firmly. “I’d like that. To be married to you. If you’re amenable, that is?”

Open-mouthed, Crowley glares. “If I’m amenable? You stupid—” He snatches the ring from Aziraphale’s palm, expression thunderous. “Stupid angel. _If I’m amenable_ – are you kidding? It’s only what I’ve wanted for centuries.”

Aziraphale, who knows better than to pay any mind to Crowley’s insults, smiles. “Oh, good. Perhaps you could make a ring for yourself then, too.”

Still muttering to himself, Crowley clenches the ring in his fist and light streaks out between his fingers. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, and then falls silent, head bowed as the room pulses with demonic energy. The light fades a few moments later and Crowley opens his fist.

Two rings, Hellfire-hot, sit in his palm. When Aziraphale reaches out to take one, Crowley’s hand closes.

“Hold on.” He blows on the rings until their glow disappears and then pinches one with his thumb and forefinger. “May I?”

“Romantic,” Aziraphale says, presenting his left hand.

Crowley slides the ring onto his third finger, twisting it to get it over the knuckle. He presses a kiss to the still-warm gold and then frees his hand so Aziraphale can inspect it.

Nestled around Aziraphale’s finger is a delicate snake merged with a wing that could be angelic or demonic in nature. It’s a flawless fit, of course, and a perfect blend of the two of them. It even matches his nail polish. “Oh, Crowley, this is stunning.” When he looks up, Crowley has a wide, genuine smile on his face, which is as beautiful as it is rare. He is also already wearing his ring.

Pouting is undignified, so Aziraphale is careful to avoid ever doing it. He is, however, very practiced at rearranging his lips and eyebrows to give the impression of a pout. He is portraying this impression very strongly now.

“I thought I was meant to put your ring on.”

“Shit, right, sorry.” Crowley yanks off his ring, places it in Aziraphale’s waiting palm, and then presents his left hand, which tremors once before stilling.

His version of the ring is identical save for the fact that it is white gold. When Aziraphale slides it on his finger, the proximity of the twin bands seems to make the rings pulse with warmth. “What is that?”

Crowley looks at where their hands are joined, gold glinting in the red light of the _Foot Spa etc_. “I may have, uh, infused them with a curse. Just a little one. So we’ll always know if the other is okay. In case you get yourself discorporated again.”

Aziraphale flexes his hand, feeling the way the ring seems to exude love and contentment. “What a splendid idea.” He presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and, when Crowley looks up, to his lips.

Crowley cups his face and pulls him closer. Their knees knock together and Aziraphale tangles his fingers in Crowley’s hair, tempted to crawl into his lap.

“Forget about the pedicures,” Crowley hisses against his jaw, clutching his shoulders.

The _Foot Spa etc_. begins whirring again, louder than before.

It is quite difficult to speak with Crowley’s tongue against his neck, but Aziraphale can be very perseverant. “Oh, we mustn’t. We waited – ah – all day for the blasted thing and – ohh – I’ll be damned if I can’t give you a foot rub right this minute.”

Crowley leaves off sucking on his carotid to groan. “Don’t say that and fine. If you insist.”

“I do.” He places one last lingering kiss to Crowley’s lips and then pulls away to grab the _Foot Spa etc_., smiling at the way Crowley sways towards him automatically.

“Better be the best foot rub of my existence,” he grumbles.

“Go sit on the couch, won’t you, my-my love?” That’ll take some getting used to.

Crowley blinks and pinkens, but complies while Aziraphale fills the _Foot Spa etc_. with warm water and a few drops of eucalyptus oil. Its lights turn purple and its whirring turns into a happy hum, bubbles popping merrily on the surface.

“Much better.” Aziraphale places the machine on the ground by Crowley’s feet and then considers the demon.

“What?”

His eyes flick up and down his tight black jeans, which he very much doubts have the ability to roll up at the ankles. “Those will have to come off.”

Crowley looks down at his trousers. “That standard practice, is it? Angel, what kind of nail salon do you go to?”

Aziraphale kneels and gets to work removing Crowley’s snakeskin shoes. “You got me,” he deadpans. “This has all been a ruse to get in your trousers.”

This is mostly true and not really a joke at all, but Aziraphale is occasionally a bit muzzy on dry humour.

“Oh, well in that case.” Crowley snaps his fingers and his jeans and jacket are gone, his foot suddenly bare in Aziraphale’s hands.

He’s wearing nothing but a black shirt and black briefs, which is both titillating and mildly disappointing. Aziraphale wasn’t at all sure Crowley wore anything under his trousers. His legs are covered with a smattering of fine orange hairs, his thighs are lithe and well-formed, and his knees look like the perfect curvature to fit in Aziraphale’s palms.

“Take a picture, angel, it’ll last longer,” he snarks, wriggling his toes against Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Perhaps later,” Aziraphale says serenely, and eases his feet into the bubbling water.

Crowley sighs deeply, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, and Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry. Using those knobby knees for balance, he pushes himself to standing.

“You just relax while I go get the supplies.”

“Mmm,” is the vague reply.

Aziraphale takes off his jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves, retrieves the nail care case and a fluffy white towel, then hunts down the low, cushioned stool languishing in one of his book shelves. The stool he places in front of the _Foot Spa etc_. and the nail care case on the ground beside it. He pours them each a glass of wine – a French red he’s been saving for ages – and then he hesitates.

A hint of yellow-gold peeks out from Crowley’s lowered eyelids, trained on him.

He really doesn’t want his trousers to get wet, and fair’s fair he supposes.

With a quiet exhale, Aziraphale bends at the waist to remove his shoes and socks, which he places neatly to one side, then brusquely strips off his trousers. When he stands up straight to carefully fold the well-loved fabric, Crowley’s eyes are open wide, sweeping over him hungrily. Aziraphale’s underthings are not nearly as tight as Crowley’s, but they’re white instead of black, a tad more revealing.

Crowley gives a low whistle. “I’m liking this pedicure thing even more than the manicures.” He takes a sip of wine like he’s watching a riveting piece of theatre, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Any inkling of self-consciousness dies an unlamented death, and Aziraphale’s hips may sway a bit more than usual (which is not at all) as he turns to place his trousers over the kitchen chair. “Just wait until I get my hands on you.”

Crowley makes a rough noise and shifts on the couch. “Your tone of voice and the fact that that’s normally a threat is very confusing.”

Taking a seat on the stool, Aziraphale places the towel on his lap and eyes those black briefs, which appear to be experiencing mild strain. “You don’t look overly confused,” he notes. “Right foot, please.”

“You’re a menace.” Crowley lifts his wet foot and places it in Aziraphale’s waiting hands resting on the towel.

“Thank you.”

His foot is narrow with long toes that can probably be attributed to some ancient nationality, though Aziraphale can never remember the difference between Roman and Egyptian toe shapes. There’s a small cluster of fiery hairs on the top of his foot and a scale-like texture over the heel and ball of the foot. Curious, Aziraphale strokes his thumb over one of the snakeskin patches. It’s smooth and cool to the touch.

Crowley shivers.

“Ticklish?”

“’Course not,” Crowley scoffs. “Demons aren’t ticklish.”

It takes a miraculous amount of self-control to keep his lips from twitching. “Ah, my mistake.”

Crowley has no calluses to speak of, no hang nails, no ragged cuticles, but this time Aziraphale does not complain. It means he can spend more time on the massage. And other things.

He makes a show with the nail clippers and cuticle nippers and nail file, trimming off a sliver of nail here and there. He doesn’t bother with the callus stone, but takes the time to gently rub an exfoliating scrub into the scaly bits, which causes Crowley to squirm and laugh.

“Not ticklish my wing.”

“Shut up! I’m just – ah heh – trying to get comfortable.”

It’s impatience that spurs Aziraphale to move on from the exfoliating scrub so quickly, but he’ll let Crowley think it’s divine mercy.

He feels a flicker of nerves as he reaches for the moisturizer, which causes his hand to make a detour for his glass of wine. He’s being ridiculous. He’s been on Earth for over six millennia, he knows how a massage works. Of course, it’s the _other things_ that give him pause. It’s not like he’s particularly experienced in matters of a sexual nature, no matter how many books he may have read on the topic. He wants this to be good for Crowley. He deserves the best.

The gramophone has started playing calming nature sounds at some point, and Aziraphale listens to water trickle over rocks and birds chirp along to the occasional dong of bells. Palms slathered in moisturizer, he lays his hands on Crowley’s lower leg, then sweeps them down to his foot. Keeping his touch firm rather than teasing, he digs his thumbs into the arch of Crowley’s foot.

“Ooooh,” Crowley exhales, head tilting back. “That’s the stuff.”

Some of the nerves dissipate and Aziraphale smiles, circling his thumbs to work the muscle.

Shortly after his creation, Aziraphale was trained to use a flaming sword. It was an honour to be given such a weapon from God, and so he mastered the skill of wielding it. He took no joy in it, however. He did not get any satisfaction out of cutting down his opponents or of fighting in general. For a time, Aziraphale felt doubt in his role and regret that he was quite so good with his hands. That doubt followed him until he gave away his sword in Eden, a decision which birthed many other doubts instead.

He is still good with his hands, but he tried never again to use a weapon, if he could avoid it. Instead, he found books. It brings him satisfaction to delicately turn the tissue-thin pages of an ancient tome, to painstakingly repair a tattered cover and spine.

Nothing has brought him as much joy as using his touch to give Crowley pleasure. 

Crowley takes pleasure in the extremes – driving too fast, sleeping too long, drinking too much. It’s all or nothing with him, save for the numerous small compromises he has conceded to for Aziraphale. To have him calm and quiet on Aziraphale’s old couch, his body languid and trusting in Aziraphale’s hands – it’s intoxicating. 

Once he has massaged every muscle in Crowley’s foot, his hands move up his ankle, then his calf, thumbs applying pressure on either side of his tibia. His gold nail polish complements Crowley’s skin beautifully, shimmering amongst the bronze hairs. Crowley hums low in his throat, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he makes his way up to his knee. The nerves are back, and Aziraphale only manages to briefly cup his kneecap.

“Time to switch feet, I believe,” he says, pulling away.

Crowley complies silently, easing his wet foot into Aziraphale’s waiting lap. They both take a healthy swig from their glasses.

The process restarts. Thumbs along his arch, his heel, the ball of his foot, and each toe. A gentle manipulation of the ankle. Fingers digging into his strong calf and thumbs pressing into his shin.

When he reaches Crowley’s knee, he sweeps his palm over the curve of the patella and, watching Crowley’s expression, rests his hands just above. He takes a breath. “Normally, we’d move on to the nail polish now.”

Crowley’s breathing has gone shallow and quick, his eyes burning into Aziraphale like twin suns. “Any chance we could go off script?”

The evidence of Crowley’s desire and trust washes away most of Aziraphale’s lingering doubt. Relieved, almost giddy at the thought of touching more of him, the impulse to tease rears its head. Stroking his thumbs over Crowley’s knee, he lowers his eyelashes bashfully. “You know how I feel about improvising, dearest.”

A somewhat wild look fills those honey-gold eyes as Crowley tries to think of a way to convince him. “’s not really improvising. More like…like skipping some steps.”

Aziraphale lets his eyes widen. “I don’t know what type of salon you think I frequent, but I assure you the only happy endings involved are delightfully pampered hands and feet.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue and then stops and deflates. “Right, on with the pedicure then. Think I’ll get black this time.”

“Oh, Crowley, I’m only teasing.” Taking pity, he presses a kiss to Crowley’s knee and glides his hands an inch higher on his thigh.

They stay frozen in this position for several breaths, and then Crowley’s muscles tense as he slowly, so slowly, nudges his foot deeper into Aziraphale’s lap. Through the towel, through his underthings, the arch of Crowley’s foot applies delicious pressure between his legs. There’s no doubt he can feel the hardness there. No doubt he can feel the way Aziraphale’s hips shift automatically closer, can hear Aziraphale’s sharp inhalation.

A hiss, long and low, whistles out between Crowley’s teeth and his thighs spread further open. “Thank Someone.”

Aziraphale’s nerves sing with anticipation. His breath comes rabbit-quick as his hands start moving again, massaging and squeezing and kneading the warm bulk of Crowley’s thigh. Midway up, Crowley curses, and lust slides down Aziraphale’s spine like honey. He can feel himself harden further against Crowley’s foot.

“ _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale’s stomach jumps with urgency. He sits up and squeezes Crowley’s bony knees. “Put your feet on the floor.”

“Why?” he asks, already complying.

Aziraphale pushes the _Foot Spa etc_. to one side and scoots the stool closer until his knees hit the couch, Crowley’s legs bracketing his. “So that I can do this.” He places his hands back on Crowley’s thighs and slides them up until his thumbs brush the edges of his briefs.

“Oh – _ngh!_ ” Crowley’s hands fly to his shoulders and crash land there, his hips pushing up into the pressure. “G-good reason.”

Bowing his head, Aziraphale places a kiss to the inside of one thigh and wriggles his thumbs deeper under the elastic bands. Crowley’s skin is hot and just slightly damp, his pulse jumping under Aziraphale’s fingers.

“Angel.” A touch to his jaw tilts Aziraphale’s head up and then Crowley is hunching over and kissing him hard, desperation spilling out of his mouth and into Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s hands clench and Crowley groans, his fingers twitching in Aziraphale’s hair and his thighs clamping on Aziraphale’s knees. With a hand that isn’t quite steady, Aziraphale lightly strokes Crowley’s erection through his pants, feeling the hot-iron shape of him.

Crowley’s head tilts down immediately to see. “Oh, _fuck_.”

With their foreheads pressed together, they both watch Aziraphale’s gold-tipped fingers trail up and down the black fabric, following the curve of Crowley’s hardness trapped against his hip. The muscles in Crowley’s thighs tremor with each pass, and when Aziraphale places his entire hand over his erection, he can feel it twitch against his palm.

Hands fisted in Aziraphale’s shirt, Crowley tilts his head back. “ _Yes_.”

Aziraphale immediately latches onto his exposed throat, tempted by the sight, the smell, the taste of him. He can’t quite believe that with a simple touch, he can bring Crowley – the silver-tongued, nonchalant, cool serpent of Eden – to such a delicious state of desperation. He kisses and licks and nibbles from windpipe to the hollow beneath Crowley’s ear and cautiously squeezes him through the fabric.

“Angel, _please_ , I’m actually begging you to touch me.” His hips squirm and Aziraphale copies him, shifting on his stool, a heavy ache between his legs.

“I thought I was,” he says, rather primly, rubbing circles into the damp spot in the fabric. It’s quite fun winding a demon up.

Crowley makes a jumbled sound, twisting like a snake. “You know what I mean.”

“I suppose I do.” Aziraphale licks his lips and rests his forehead against Crowley’s collarbone so he can watch as he carefully peels off Crowley’s pants, freeing his erection. It springs up immediately, red and glistening at the tip, framed by golden-red curls. Aziraphale feels a blasphemous rush of awe at the sight of Crowley’s need for him.

“Stunning,” he sighs, and takes him in hand.

“Ohhh, angel, ah, fucking – _something_ —”

Crowley’s shirt has ridden up, revealing the way his abdominals clench handsomely as he fucks up into Aziraphale’s grip. He has slid partway down the couch, one hand gripping the edge of the cushion and the other scrabbling over Aziraphale’s shoulder, the back of his neck, and into his hair.

“This is – you’re – everything – want all of you – forever,” he gasps incoherently, groaning continuously now as Aziraphale slides his fist up and down his slick length, his thumb stroking the underside, the frenulum, the shiny glans.

“The feeling is quite mutual, my love,” Aziraphale assures him, voice tight with desire. He’s sorely tempted to shove his free hand down his own pants, but instead he pulls Crowley’s pants down further to better see him. Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s hair, muffling a pained sound.

“Wait, angel, ’m gonna embarrass myself.”

“You couldn’t possibly.”

His hips tilt, thighs clenching. “Gonna come.”

Aziraphale sucks on his bottom lip, watching intently as his length seems to stiffen impossibly in his hand. “Nothing would please me more.”

Crowley whimpers and digs his nails into Aziraphale’s back. “Nothing?”

“Well, perhaps world peace or ending world hunger, but other than that—”

Crowley’s response would undoubtedly be lethally witty if it were comprehensible. Mostly it sounds like, “Angelmmmfffff—"

His discomposure is both flattering and incredibly arousing, and the temptation to touch himself sharpens. He manages only a handful more quick, short strokes before Crowley’s entire body goes tense.

“Are you nearly at your crisis?” Aziraphale asks roughly and Crowley chokes on a laugh that could be mistaken for a sob.

“Yeah, a great fucking crisis, _fuck_.”

He wants to see, he wants— “Let me see your face,” he says quickly.

Crowley’s head tilts back again, his eyes squeezed shut, his eyebrows an exquisite arc of pleasure. “ _Angel, angel, oh_ —!”

His erection seems to surge in Aziraphale’s hand, the opening flaring to spill a long line of ejaculate as Crowley keens. Aziraphale drinks in the sight of him in the throes of orgasm: his mouth falling open, his forehead creasing, his eyelids fluttering. He makes a series of shocked sounds as he spills on his stomach and Aziraphale’s still-moving hand, little _ah-ah_ ’s that drive Aziraphale wild.

With his corporation near ready to explode, adoration and love swelling through his entire being, Aziraphale comes to terms with something he has been feeling for a long, long time. “I don’t want to exist without you.” He cups Crowley’s stones with his free hand and squeezes his length.

“Fuck, Aziraphale, ohhhh—” Crowley rasps, and his hand releases the couch cushion to clamp around his wrist, stilling his hand as Crowley pulses again with a long groan. His hips are completely off the couch now, the muscles in his legs straining, his stomach glistening with his spend.

It’s a sight that could tempt an angel. Has tempted one angel in particular.

Once the intensity of it fades, he seems to lose all his bones at once, flopping onto the couch with a satisfied grunt. “ _Can’t_ exist without you.” With a lazy wave of the hand, the mess he’s made of himself is gone, and then he tugs on Aziraphale’s arm. “C’mere, why’re you still down there, c’mere.”

“This is an undignified position,” Aziraphale grumbles to mask the speed with which he kneels on the couch, straddling Crowley’s hips. He swallows thickly at the sight of his own erection bulging obscenely beneath his white underwear. Crowley grabs his hips and lifts his face, still flushed and wide-pupiled.

“Give us a kiss, then.”

Aziraphale does. He cards his fingers through Crowley’s beautiful hair and shivers when Crowley’s nails bite into his arse, the heat between his legs impossible to ignore, need swamping his brain. His hips sway forward and back minutely, instinctively, desperate for friction. Crowley’s doing him no favours, lighting up his nerves with soft lips against his earlobe, a hot tongue against his throat, the graze of teeth across his bottom lip.

“Oh, please,” he whimpers, when Crowley’s thumbs sweep along the creases of his groin, feeling his underwear growing positively soaked with his desire.

“Should make you wait for your pedicure first,” Crowley says darkly, hot breath against his ear. “What was your stance on improvisation again?”

“I’m growing rather fond of it.” His eyes squeeze shut as he seeks fortitude to avoid coming in his underwear. “No reason why you can’t bring me off now, give me a pedicure, and then do it again.”

Crowley is already pulling down his pants with hands made clumsy with eagerness. “Clever angel.”

Arms wrapped around his thin shoulders, Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley’s temple and watches his lovely hands sweep up and down his thighs. His erection is obscene to look at, holding his eye as Crowley draws a gentle finger along the underside.

Shivers wrack Aziraphale’s corporation at the simple touch, his muscles clenching with the shock of pleasure. “Ohhh, more of that, I think,” he breathes, his hips resuming their minute thrusts.

“Yeah,” Crowley says vaguely, sounding almost dazed, and begins to lightly pet Aziraphale’s erection, dragging his fingertips from root to tip over and over. The sensations roll over him, a flame between his legs that is stoked by Crowley’s fingers.

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” he whines, clutching at him. His hips jerk and Crowley hisses and stops his infernal teasing to wrap a slick hand around him. Impossibly, the fire flares again, and Aziraphale can’t stop his little gasping mewls as he fucks the tight tunnel of Crowley’s fist with sharp, short thrusts. Crowley’s other hand grasps at his thigh and arse, urging him on, and Aziraphale tilts his head back in ecstasy.

“That’s it, angel, let go,” Crowley croons into his neck. “Come for me, angel.”

An angel can’t disobey. His breath punches out of him in a sob as the inferno explodes, Crowley’s nails digging into his arse, his hand sliding slick and maddening between his legs. He cries out at the intensity of it, his muscles clenching rhythmically, spilling onto Crowley’s chest and stomach while Crowley hisses encouragements in his ear. He has never felt anything quite like this before.

When he has nothing left to give and the ecstasy has faded into a mellow bliss, he sags into Crowley’s lap and falls easily into Crowley’s kisses, practically purring as Crowley smooths his hands up and down his back.

“I quite like married life,” he remarks and presses a chaste peck to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley squeezes his arse. “Oh, I see, you married me for pedicures and sex.”

Aziraphale huffs. “You haven’t given me a pedicure yet.”

“And who’s fault is that?” With a serpentine roll, Crowley dumps Aziraphale onto the couch, laughing at Aziraphale’s resulting shriek, and slithers onto the stool. It takes a moment to retrieve the _Foot Spa etc_., which has been kicked under the table and is beeping indignantly. Crowley freshens up the water and presents the machine with an expansive wave of the hand. “Your bath awaits, m’Lord.”

With a regal shimmy to gather himself, Aziraphale slips his feet into the warm, bubbling water. “I’ve never had a pedicure nude before.”

The way Crowley wriggles his eyebrows is positively goofy. “That’s because you’ve never had a pedicure from me before.”

“Well.” Aziraphale smiles and reaches out to stroke Crowley’s lovely face. His expression softens and his eyelids lower with the touch, his head tilting into Aziraphale’s hand. “Show me what I married you for, my dear.”

A laugh bursts out of him, his cheeks going a surprising shade of pink. Aziraphale sits back, feeling smug and very in love.

“Right. Gimme your foot, husband.”

The pedicure is a smashing success. Their wine glasses refill themselves, and they sip the rich red in between the nail clipping and foot rubs. The massage is interspersed with kisses to Aziraphale’s shins, his knees, his thighs, until Aziraphale is aching again. There’s a devilish tilt to Crowley’s lips when he insists on painting Aziraphale’s nails before carrying on with anything _more_.

“What kind of nail technician would I be if I skipped steps?” he asserts, and then sucks Aziraphale’s big toe into his mouth.

It’s an odd place to feel such delicious wet, sucking heat, but there must be a nerve connecting the toe directly to the genitals, Aziraphale thinks dazedly as he arcs off the couch. There’s an entire branch of medicine based on such theories, he recalls.

Crowley pulls of with a lewd _pop_. “Colour?”

“ _Guh_ ,” is his intelligent response.

“Gold? Sure thing, angel.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” Aziraphale wheedles.

“Course it is.” Crowley’s eyebrows lift but his lips twitch. He makes a ruckus searching through the nail care case.

“Crowley.” He isn’t whining, but his erection is quite insistent and perhaps the pitch of his voice has gone up slightly.

Crowley finds the nail polish, turns to him, and groans. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He isn’t pouting, but – alright, he is pouting, damn it.

“You know I can’t – you know what happens when you look at me like that –”

He pouts harder and squirms, his knees falling open, drawing Crowley’s eye instantly.

Crowley groans again and tosses the nail polish in the vicinity of the case. The _Foot Spa etc_. is unceremoniously kicked under the table again and then Crowley is sinking to his knees between Aziraphale’s feet, his hands already massaging their way up Aziraphale’s thighs.

Surging forward, Aziraphale seizes his face and kisses him deeply, electricity crackling between them. Aziraphale is kindling and Crowley is the match, and all they need is a little friction to set things alight. With hands on his chest and clever fingers plucking at his nipples, the flame catches as Crowley eases him, gasping, against the back of the couch. Once there, he leaves off Aziraphale’s lips to kiss a hot trail down his neck, down his sternum, and over his belly, the flame spreading fast.

“Crowley!”

Eyes molten, Crowley looks at him from under heavy eyelids as he sucks the tip of Aziraphale’s erection into his mouth.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s head tilts back automatically with pleasure and relief, then he forces his spine to straighten enough that he can watch the proceedings. With an approving hum, Crowley sinks deeper onto him, his tongue laving the underside and his hand cupping his testicles, a thumb pressed against the root of him. The wet heat feels indescribably good, and Aziraphale clutches Crowley’s free hand to stop himself from floating away with bliss. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

Crowley sucks in a breath through his nose and then swallows him to the root. Toes curling, Aziraphale’s moans accompany the nature sounds drifting from the gramophone as Crowley’s head begins to bob. His hips jerk and he gasps an apology, but Crowley only groans and moves faster, his fingers massaging circles on his perineum. As much as Aziraphale admires Crowley’s fingers, it’s his tongue that is truly miraculous. Long and prehensile, it slithers up and down the length of him, it wraps around the base of him and squeezes, it flickers over his glans and coaxes him open as if desperate to taste his spend. Aziraphale is a wreck under the onslaught, the heat between his legs nearly unbearable. He is going to come again and is quite incapable of providing any sort of warning other the natural reactions of his corporation.

Thighs shaking, his throat dry from moaning, Aziraphale clutches at Crowley’s hand, his shoulder, his hair. “Oh, _fuck!_ ” He plants his feet, pushes up into the scorching heat of Crowley’s mouth, and feels himself unravel.

He comes in a tsunami wave, pleasure crashing over him and leaving him to drown with Crowley’s head between his legs. He’s gasping as though he’s been under water for several minutes, his corporation shuddering as if in shock, and Crowley’s love pours into him, soothing him.

Crowley pulls off of him and curses, eyes wild. The hand that was between Aziraphale’s legs disappears between Crowley’s instead and Aziraphale realizes Crowley intends to bring himself off.

Fighting through the torpor that is swamping his corporation, Aziraphale seizes his arm. “None of that, my dear.”

“ _Angel_.” Crowley shivers, his sclera consumed by gold. He’s on the very precipice.

No time for gentleness, then. With a burst of angelic strength, Aziraphale pushes Crowley until he sprawls on his back on the floor, his prick pointing to the heavens. He’s flushed to his chest, his ribs heaving, his lips swollen, his hair in disarray, the most delicious thing Aziraphale has ever laid eyes on.

“I’d quite like to return the favour,” he explains, kneeling between his legs.

“Oh, God, Satan, _fuck_.”

It is quite possible that Crowley is coming before Aziraphale even fully gets his mouth on him. It’s no matter; Aziraphale will have time to perfect this skill later. Despite Crowley’s thrashing and keening, it’s still a surprise when his spend fills his mouth. He tastes scrumptious, not at all bitter like he expected, and Aziraphale realizes Crowley must have used a miracle for his benefit, the sweetheart.

“Ohhh, angel, you’re amazing, love you so much,” Crowley babbles while Aziraphale licks him like a lolly. His fingers card through his curls and Aziraphale shivers, thoughts of hair cuts and head massages floating in his mind.

Once he’s impeccably clean, Aziraphale allows Crowley to pull him to lie on top of him. He’s likely crushing the air from his lungs, but Crowley appears quite blissful about it.

“’mazing,” he mumbles again, eyes already drifting closed.

“Crowley, you are not sleeping on my floor.”

“Take me to your bed, then.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to appreciate his expression, smooth and calm and impossibly happy. He’d quite like Crowley in his bed, he thinks. That would be much better motivation for Aziraphale to use it than sleep is. It will be _their_ bed, now.

“Oh, fine, you wily thing.”

“Hey, what are you – angel!”

With miraculously little effort, Aziraphale scoops Crowley up, ignoring his wriggling and protests until he sags in defeat. It’s a trick to get him up the stairs and through the doorway, but they manage it with only a couple bruises. When he dumps the demon on his bed, wiry arms ensnare him and pull him onto the mattress, too.

“We’ll christen it when I wake up,” Crowley mumbles, curling against him.

“What a dreadful use of that word,” Aziraphale sighs, succumbing to the fact that he will be stuck here for the next several hours. Perhaps he will give napping an attempt.

Crowley garbles something vaguely dissenting and something that sounds like ‘honeymoon’, then something that Aziraphale realizes is a snore.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his temple and daydreams of cottages. 


End file.
